


The Good Guys

by Anorkie



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Amputation, Body Modification, Eventual Smut, Gang Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Murder, References to Drugs, Revenge is Sweet, Scarification, Sexual Tension, Surgery, Unreliable Narrator, Will constantly be adding tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-29 17:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8498446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorkie/pseuds/Anorkie
Summary: Keith is an illegitimate doctor who performs body modification surgeries out of a shack in a Nevada desert. He may also be involved with a gang or two. Life was halfway decent before a dying stranger and a bag of money got dumped on his doorstep.





	1. doctor, doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by American Mary, The Dresden Dolls’ "Mandy Goes to Med School" and my own sudden desire to write something weird like this.

If someone had told Keith he would be amputating perfectly functional limbs, plucking eyeballs like rosy petals, and conjoining lovers by the hands, he still isn't sure how he would have responded. Maybe he would have quirked an eyebrow, barely considering the possibility before walking away only slightly disturbed. Maybe he would have laughed because, really, that sounded absolutely absurd. He was attending the Galaxy Garrison, an institute built on militaristic ideals and a history of shooting fresh graduates into space. He didn't know the first thing about medicine or surgery or _whatever_.

So how is he now able to reconstruct the entirety of a stranger’s face without a single bead of sweat clouding his vision?

He finishes...quicker than he anticipated. Actually, an entire half hour earlier than expected. He isn't one to stroke his own ego but damn.

A curtain is the only thing separating him from what he calls “the waiting room”. It's complete with one creaky chair (maximum two, if he grabs an extra from upstairs) and a water cooler that is usually full of water but lacks a fresh supply of disposable cups. If he's being completely honest with himself, the place needs work. The chances of him actually remodeling are slim, though. It's suitable enough to work in and he doesn't hear his clients complaining about it.

Complaining would imply they have standards. No one who drags their mush-faced buddy down a flight of stairs with one hand and a plastic bag full of cash with the other has standards.

Keith removes his gloves and pulls the curtain. The man accompanying his client jolts at the sudden noise, having fallen asleep in the chair some time ago. He is short, stocky and bald. Tattoos litter his face and hands with harsh blue-green ink. A particular tattoo, resting at the base of his shiny head, depicts an compact symbol Keith can only compare to an X or an angry-looking squid.

Most of the people who walk in here are inherently bad. Bad or misunderstood. The misunderstood he can stand to a degree, usually after a few shots of something strong, but the others? The majority of them are from high profile gangs, like this lot, and he would avoid them entirely if they didn't pay so well.

“He's staying overnight,” Keith says as he discards his surgical mask and moves to a sink to wash his hands. The man moves to his partner’s bedside, arms folded firmly over his chest.

“I want him out of here tomorrow, before noon,” Keith says, voice raised over the running sink and stressing every syllable.

The man does not respond immediately, probably too concentrated on the layers of bandages obscuring the other’s face. Keith allows him another moment of observation before repeating himself, making a point to sound as irritated as he feels. Not professional, he knows, but he is not particularly fond of walk-ins, especially at the dead of night.

“Yeah, yeah. Of course,” the man finally says, eyes distant.

“Thank you,” he later adds.

When he goes, Keith checks on his client one more time before locking up and heading upstairs. He will need to visit throughout the remainder of the night but, for now, he wants sleep even if it's dotty and interrupted. He should be grateful the guy wasn't in worse shape; he would be resigned to a chair at his bedside, otherwise.

This is how Keith spends most nights.

 

 

 

“Dude, you look fucking exhausted,” Lance says as he takes an obnoxious slurp of his coffee, only to spit it back out thanks to the excessive heat and his inability to blow first.

“Seriously. I'm pretty sure those eye bags are permanent now? Good luck ever finding a date,” he says between nursing his swollen tongue with a cup of iced water.

“Are you done?” Keith doesn't sound as annoyed as he probably should be. In fact, Lance’s comment on his appearance doesn't bother him at all because the guy's _right_. He does look like crap. The cafe's heavy scent of coffee beans and pastries are the only things cloaking Keith's presumptuous miasma of stale blood. In all honesty, the only thing bothering him right now is the the feeling of his unwashed hair and Lance’s attempts to balance ice cubes on his tongue. He needs a shower and Lance needs manners, but both of those things are beyond them at this point in time.

An ice cube whacks the table. Keith takes one, two, three sips of his tea before chugging the whole thing and smacking the empty plastic against wood with a resounding tap.

“You really know what gets me going. Next round is on the house, babe.” Honestly? Keith really could use a drink right now or all the damn time. He isn't picky.

“Maybe later,” he says, fingers lazily massaging his temples. No way in hell would Lance ever buy him a drink. It's always the other way around. Not because Lance is greedy or cheap; he offers, constantly, not only liquor but meals, places to crash, and basic household necessities Keith fails to purchase on his own. Keith has never been good at accepting kindness. It's all charity, even from his friends.

Wordlessly, Lance brings his bag from the floor to his lap and proceeds to dig through it. He fishes out a blue notebook. “Appointments” is scrawled across the front in black marker.

“You got a facial scarring at 12:00 and a double arm amputation at 5:00. That's pretty much your whole day.” Lance jots something down on a piece of scrap and promptly hands it to Keith. “These are the I.C.E. numbers they listed.”

This is the agreement they settled on: Keith does the dirty work and Lance does everything else. Keith might even argue Lance has the more difficult job. He screens clients, quotes prices and goes over all the risk factors with them. He makes sure rival gangs will never walk through Keith's door at the same time. He keeps track of returning patients and schedules their follow-ups. He meets up with gang leaders and shares drinks with them to maintain relations.

Keith never swore allegiance to one leader and their crew but here's the thing about people in power: once you touch something that belongs to them, they suddenly think they own you. Another thing: they don't share.

Yeah, Keith does it for their money, but he also does it for his own safety. He can't just quit gangs like Altea and Galra.

Keith stuffs the paper into his pocket.

“Thanks.”

 

 

 

He works out of a shack in the desert which doubles as his home. There’s enough distance between here and urban areas to ensure privacy, but it's also close enough to make late night convenience store runs. Establishing such a controversial, highly illegal business in the sands of a Nevada desert is either genius or painfully suspicious - he still can't decide which.

It started solely with body modifications. He was, despite being experienced, _inexperienced_ and trying to operate as a one-man team. He struggled for a while with exposure; no one would book a goddamn appointment with him. Word about him and his work didn't get out until a Galra gang member found him by chance and requested he turn her into a “beautiful monster”. He split and dyed her tongue blue, dyed her sclera to match, sharpened her teeth, burned intricate patterns into her forehead and along the bridge of her nose, and implanted silicone horns into her head and down her forearms. It was a long, grueling process that required several sessions. The body mod community was a livelier place than Keith ever thought because, all of a sudden, his unacknowledged business flourished and he was getting calls left and right.

Even though he could barely handle this new influx of clients, he was content. He was too busy to worry about anything but his work and it was such a breath of relief.

Then, the gang members who trickled in with his usual clientele started requesting mods for entirely different purposes or stopped desiring them altogether. _Give me a mermaid tail_ turned into _I got into some trouble with Galra; I need a new face_ or _he needs some stitches, Doc, he's bleeding out._

_Doc._

Keith is no doctor.

Doctors help people. Keith takes advantage of a society that judges people for seeking completion in extreme ways and profits off the desperation of said people.

A woman who went through several surgeries to look like a doll sought Keith out. Her eyes were impossibly big, and her remaining facial features, even bone structure, appeared manipulated to convey an essence of softness and innocence. Her request was simple: _complete me._ Keith removed her breasts and sew up her womanhood. During a follow-up, she said, “You saved me.”

His ears stung.

His 12 o'clock proves to be more time consuming than he initially anticipated. He's forced to skip out on his break and goes right into his 5 o’clock. By the time he's finished, he's more exhausted than ever and just wants to sleep.

Keith makes way too much money to sleep on a futon, but he does because the familiarity of it gets him to sleep quicker than any fancy mattress could. It must be nearly midnight by the time his head hits the pillow. Rest is fleeting, though. His rounds force him in and out of bed, making tonight much like the previous. When he retreats upstairs to pour himself a cup of hot tea, it takes a solid five seconds to realize he's pouring the boiling water over his fingers and not into the cup. He retracts his burnt hand and runs it over cold water.

He _really_ needs to pay someone to do this part of his job for him.

The feeling of water pouring over his skin is soothing and pulls him into a slumber. It's short-lived.

From outside, a horn erupts. Keith is startled into consciousness. He detaches his cheek from the dirty plate it’s flushed against and whacks his head on the sink’s spout. He stumbles backwards, nearly hitting the floor as he curses wildly.

Despite the pounding in his head, he can make out the sound of a car engine. Its humming disrupts the comfortable stillness of the desert. Using the wall for support, he moves toward one of the two windows. Headlights. They are pointing directly at him. He ducks so fast it actually _hurts_ but he's not sure where. Panic blooms in his chest and it's the only thing he can concentrate on. Outside, there is a hard thud, a sound he distinctly recognizes as a body hitting sand.

Late night walk-ins aren't uncommon, they really aren't. Keith has dealt with a wide variety of them, but they always feel the same. The initial encounter is quick and desperate and honest. Keith has never felt threatened because, among panic, he is the one in control. The people who seek him out understand trust is a very necessary component in survival and do nothing to intimidate it.

Maybe he's just overreacting. Maybe Zarkon or Allura finally found out their enemies are getting life-saving surgeries done by the same person. It's entirely possible. How long did Keith think he could dodge the issue, really?

The headlights vanish. He almost expects to hear a banging at the door but it never comes. Instead, sand is lapped up by tires as the rumbling engine fades.

He peeks out the window before deciding the coast is clear and standing at his full height. Still, he reaches for the knife under his pillow and opens the door slowly. Immediately, he is met with the horizon line of the desert, fading softly into shades of purple and blue. Lights from the city can be seen from here. Everything seems to have returned to its usual quiet. For a moment, Keith relaxes. His eyes drift to his feet for a brief moment, but something only inches in front of them holds his gaze. There is a dark mass splayed out sloppily on the ground. Before reacting, overreacting, he hits the light switch.

Illuminated by the light is a man face down in the sand. Resting beside his crumpled form is a duffel bag. Keith reaches for the bag first, unzipping it and accidentally spilling the contents. Wads of cash pour from the opening, whacking Keith's feet and grazing the man's head. The panic from earlier returns only this time doubled, tripled.

No one is watching him, probably, but he feels like eyes are on him as he hurriedly shoves the green back into the bag. There's so _much._ His eyes dart manically from the cash to the unconscious/possibly-dead-at-this-point man. His mind floods with questions, the main one being _what the fuck?_

_What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?_

He's oblivious to the fact he's saying it aloud now, too busy dragging the man into his home and settling him onto the futon. He checks for a pulse as an afterthought and inwardly scolds himself for his carelessness. Alive, at least. Before he does anything else, he retrieves the duffel bag and swings the front door shut. _Take a deep breath, focus, focus, focus_. His knife is still tightly wound up in his hand. He puts it aside on a nearby coffee table.

Keith finally takes a look at this new stranger's face. He is unmistakably unconscious; his expression is warped with exhaustion and his eyes are clamped closed. Clumps of sand litter his face, held together by sweat, blood and maybe other bodily fluids. His hair is predominantly black but the forelock is white. The blanched strands stick to his forehead. A fresh, nasty cut stretches along the bridge of his nose, still weeping blood. Along his chest, splitting the fabric of his shirt, are similar marks. It takes a long moment to discern the continuity of them - they don't seem random. Then, Keith realizes.

Angry-looking squid. Galra.

The next thing Keith realizes is the state of the man’s right arm. He reaches for his knife and cuts the sleeve to get a better look.

Immediately, he knows there's no saving it. Needless to say, its shredded remains look like something out of a horror movie. He is unable to determine exactly how it got that way just by looking at it, but he can guess gunshots by the gaping holes. Only, he knows what bullet wounds look like and these aren't it. At all. Too much flesh is missing, like someone peeled off layers of skin like a bandage.

Cannibalism is the next thing to pop into his head. He pushes the thought away though; Galra does a lot of fucked up shit but cannibalism isn't one of them.

Regardless, infection has already set in. At this rate, that arm will kill the man and Keith's most reliable source for answers. He isn't going to let that happen.

In a fit of stubbornness, he scrounges for supplies in various cabinets upstairs and makes a trip downstairs for the rest. He considers the stains this procedure will leave on the futon and floor as he sets up a makeshift workstation. It would be unwise to reposition the man now. He secures an oxygen mask over the man’s face and administers an anesthetic to keep him from consciousness. Keith plunges into flesh with the decisive edge of a blade.

He salvages as much of the stranger's arm as possible. He removes everything below the elbow and a few inches above it. He closes the stump with the neatest stitches his fatigued hands can muster. He repeats the action with the facial wound. By the time he reaches the chest wounds, the threading motion of his fingers becomes methodical. It's almost relaxing. The blood coating his gloves reminds him it shouldn't be.

After that, he turns himself into a human blood bag, more or less. His type O blood has proven to be useful in more than one instance. This is no exception. He attaches a line from his arm to the man's left and watches it turn red.

There are too many surgical supplies scattered on the floor to sit safely but he somehow finds a place to settle. He awkwardly rests his head on the edge of the futon, close to the stranger's shoulder. Now that he has more or less calmed down, he can't help but notice the sweat clogging his own pores. He's got the worst goddamn itch. He resists the urge to rake his fingernails against his skin and scalp. What he really needs is a shower. If he could find a way to drag Mr. Who Is This Guy Really close enough to the shower without causing life-threatening damage, he would.

Keith decides to check for a wallet. It's closer to one of the first things he should have done. One-highhandedly, he prods through the guy's pockets, shamelessly slipping his palm under the his ass and groping at it. Nothing. Of course, nothing. That would be too easy.

He assigns random names to the face: _Arthur, Glenn, Jared, Will, Josh…_ None feel like a match.

God, he is so fucking _tired._

Against his better judgement, he falls asleep.

 

 

 

He wakes up sometime later, squinting at the analog clock in the kitchen and removing the string of red attaching him to Whoever.

He resumes sleeping until his clients’ rides arrive to pick them up. He is hardly present in any sense of the word during each transaction. Sometime after 8 o’clock he calls Lance and tells him, without explanation, to cancel all of his appointments for today.

“You got a hot date or something?” How can one person be so relentlessly annoying yet be the closest thing to a best friend he will ever have?

“Just do it.”

The years Lance has worked with Keith has trained his ears to catch the smallest bit of urgency in the cloaking tones of irritation.

“What happened?” Lance says, suddenly serious.

Keith sighs hard. It releases something within him. He's not sure what.

“You might as well tell me now,” his partner says. “I'm gonna find out eventually.”

He's right.

“Someone dumped an unconscious man and half a million dollars in cash on my doorstep last night. Dude was fucked up pretty bad. I don't know if he's with Galra or not. Either way, they have something to do with it.”

There is a long silence on the other end.

“Sorry, I was clutching my counter top so I wouldn't fall over _what the fuck, Keith?”_ Lance sounds breathless.

 _“_ Hey man, I didn't want to amputate someone's arm at ass o’clock in the morning. I didn't have much of a choice, though.” A headache is forming in his temples. This phone call was supposed to be easy.

“You had a lot of choices! You could have, I don't know, inconspicuously dropped him off at a hospital or just dumped the body somewhere?”

“And do what with the cash?” He's pacing now, eyeing the stranger in his bed from only feet away. “Someone wanted him alive, Lance.”

“You think this is like a test of loyalty or something? Maybe they know about Altea.” Lance's voice is teetering on frantic. “Fuck, we shouldn't have gotten mixed up with Allura’s crew. This is all my fault. I mean, Galra practically owns you, why did we think-”

“Lance.”

“They do! Christ, they're the ones who-”

“ _Lance!”_

In the silence that follows, Keith can hear a soft groan come from the stranger as he shifts. He is at his bedside in an instant. The humming against his ear is either the quiet apologies or further worries of his partner, which he all but drowns out and finally shushes when he drones on. Mr. Whoever makes another soft noise, eyelids fluttering.

“I think he's waking up.”

“Wait, who? The guy?”

“Who the fuck else?”

Keith rubs the flat of his hand over his face and takes a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever this turns into. He prepares to end the call, but Lance beats him to it.

“I'm coming over right now.”

A conclusive beep rings in Keith's ear. He could try calling back - he _should._ Instead, he snaps his flip phone shut and tosses it across the room without a care for the thing. It'll survive; it's built like a brick. Keith, on the other hand…

His breath catches in his throat when he redirects his attention to Mr. Whoever, whose eyes are locked on Keith. They're the most interesting shade of gray Keith's ever seen. This may be largely in part of the thick layer of Death clinging to his eyes, still attempting to claim what is rightfully Hers. Harsh red lines consume what should be the whites of his sclera. His body thrums with wild energy. His breathing is irregular, rugged and fills the air with an aura of danger Keith is too aware of to intimidate. When Mr. Whoever glances at the stump that used to be his right arm, his expression darkens.

Keith never considered the possibility of bringing a killer into his home.

“Who are you?”

Mr. Whoever's voice is hoarse. It just adds to the terror boiling in Keith's stomach.

Keith's mouth is suddenly very dry when he says, “A doctor.”

The stranger's features soften at that, if only slightly. Keith decides to run with it and repeats himself.

_A doctor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know shit about medical mumbo jumbo and I don't want to pretend I do. I tried to keep the procedure descriptions vague for this reason. Feel free to correct me on my mistakes.


	2. trust building exercises

There is enough water in the kettle from last night to make a cup of tea - maybe two. After Keith is bombarded with more questions - _Where am I? Who do you work for? Is it safe here?_ \- he feels secure enough to turn his back for the quickest second to turn the burner on.

_My home._

_Myself._

_Yes._

He keeps his answers vague in an attempt at sincerity but ends up manipulating the truth. Yes, this is his home. Yes, he does _technically_ work for himself. He just fails to include the part where he knowingly patches up gang members while operating under a guise of loyalty, or the fact he has a partner. And, if the man is asking if it is safe to be here _at this exact moment in time_ , the answer is a confident yes. No one has come to bust open the door (yet).

It's Keith's turn to ask a question. He starts with, “What's your name?” because it seems harmless enough. He doesn't want to intimidate the stranger if it can be helped. The man may be missing one arm and his chest may be a constellation of stitches, but Keith has seen men with similar eyes, in worse states, go berserk at the drop of a hat.  

He steps out of the kitchen and into the small living space. When the man grasps the metal frame of the futon to settle into a sitting position, Keith tenses at the slight display of mobility. Pain is not a reliable restraint - he knows this. Buckles and straps and the occasional duct tape, on the other hand, are. There are tons stored in the basement. He has no excuse for not retrieving and utilizing them while the man was still unconscious (other than his fatigue-induced brain clouding his judgement).

“My name is Keith,” he says in hopes of encouraging a response when none is offered.

The stranger seems to ignore Keith as his fingers hover over the swollen stump of his missing appendage. Gauze obscures most of the gore. Experimentally, he taps it and muffles a yelp with clenched teeth. The pain must solidify the absence because his shoulders roll with a bitter laugh.

“I couldn't save it,” Keith says and, when he does, realizes this man's arm is the first he has ever amputated without consent. The first limb in general, actually. Usually his clients gracefully accept the terms and conditions and, if their from Galra or Altea, they have always been consciousness enough to understand what must be done.

“I'm sorry,” he adds.

The stranger's chest deflates with a defeated sigh. The blanket of aggression he cloaked himself in upon waking seems to slip away.

“Shiro,” he says.

Intrigued by the sudden display of vulnerability, Keith dares to advance closer to the man. This is a mistake. In an instant, he is turned over and pressed face first against the floor. There is a foot on his back and a knife - _his,_ it must have ended up on the floor, coffee table, or futon after last night - ghosting the taut muscles of his neck. His tongue stings as the warm taste of blood fills his mouth.

Realization tells him he snatched at bait or this guy is more unhinged than he originally thought. Either way, he is an idiot for not being more careful.

From the kitchen, bubbling water lightly pats the inside of the kettle. It's the only sound he can recognize other than the beating on his own heart and the heavy breathing flooding the air above him.

“Don't get too comfortable,” Shiro says, leaning in so close his breath tickles Keith's ear. Distance is created when he adjusts, heel digging into Keith's spine - _ouch_ \- and arm steady. Despite the anger that comes with the bastard using his knife, there's something about the moment that makes Keith's face hot.

“Did you think you would patch me up and suddenly we'd be best friends? Did Sendak put you up to this?” The tone of Shiro's voice commands answers, but Keith stills. _Sendak._ He knows that name.

“Patch up? That's putting it mildly.”

“Tell me who you really are!” Shiro's voice explodes in time with the kettle, which boils over and shrills from its tiny mouth.

He barely gives the other man a second to answer; retracting the knife, he slams Keith's face against the floor. Something cracks. Shiro pulls Keith's head back to reveal a broken nose and reinstates the weapon.

Bees get caught in Keith's ears, somehow. At least, that's what everything sounds like as his vision tries to correct itself, having gone black for a moment. The vibrations of Shiro's voice are tangible yet so far away. The man is talking, he thinks, but he can’t discern a single word being said.

A noise bubbles in his throat and he is laughing. Then again, he is unsure because he can't hear himself either.

Pressure is applied to the knife and he might be bleeding a little.

“-is that?”

His senses ignite like the resurrection of a centuries old volcano. He feels molten lava oozing from the tear in his flesh and hears scorching rocks burst into the atmosphere like fireworks.

“Who the _fuck_ is that?” Shiro says for the third, fourth, maybe twentieth time.

Keith doesn't realize what the hell is happening until the knocking at the door becomes louder than the incessant screaming of Shiro and the tea kettle.

With a firm kick, the door swings open and hits the adjacent wall. Even in this situation, Keith manages to groan because that was really unnecessary - especially since the door was already unlocked. Lance freezes in the doorway. His expression goes from determined to startled when he sees the predicament Keith is in.

The predicament _they're_ in. Lance is part of this too, now.

“I'll kill him,” Shiro growls.

Lance raises his arms defensively but only to about his waistline.

“Hey, I get it: you're having a bad day. I get them too.”

His tone is so casual and easy it sends Shiro over the edge. Keith can feel the man's muscles twitch in anticipation as he readies his hand for the killing blow. The sharp edge of metal thrums with the dark energy of its wielder, ready to bite and split Keith apart. He is almost certain he is going to die here and from his own carelessness no less. He is almost certain he deserves to.

His demise is interrupted with the snap of a trigger and a guttural cry.

A faint cluster of smoke rises and disperses from the gun in Lance's hand. The pain sends Shiro reeling back onto the futon, weapon falling to the floor. Keith rolls onto his back and coughs hard upon his release. His partner is at his side in an instant to help him stand. He starts to say something, but Keith pushes past him and darts to the kitchen to shush the wailing of the kettle, to _breathe._

He has had clients wake from surgery with quivering eyes and teeth bared over wild snarls. Threats have trickled from their lips as they kicked and screamed against their restraints, only finding solace upon learning they were actually safe. Once, he was forced to remove a butcher knife lodged in a guy's leg. Fellow gang members held the guy down while the anesthesia settled, because the situation had him hollering and thrashing. Pumped full of adrenaline, he overcame the weight of almost a dozen people as he clamped his hand around Keith's throat. Keith was so shocked he didn't feel pain as he was choked to the point of blacking out. The other people in the room subdued their companion before any more damage could be done. Keith woke up on one of his own operating tables a few minutes later, confused.

That was probably the closest anyone has ever gotten to killing him which is, considering his line of work, anticlimactic. But, this - this tops it.

When he turns around, Lance's attention is solely on Shiro. Although the man does nothing but writhe against the bullet lodged in his left shoulder, Lance keeps the gun trained on him.

“Are you okay?”

Keith frowns and clears his throat before speaking. “You left a mark on my door.”

“Um?” Keith doesn't have to see Lance's face to know the expression he's making. “This guy almost cut your throat open like you were some sacrificial animal, but I guess I'm the bad one because I scuffed some wood with my shoe.”

“You made the situation worse by showing up.” The words are accusatory, but his tone lacks any real fire.

Lance is rolling his eyes, probably. “Because you totally had everything under control before I walked in.”

Shiro attempts to sit up but halts when Lance takes a bold step forward.

“Stay put.” His voice is dangerously low.

Shiro's expression is a mixture of hurt, alarm and pissed off. Perspiration trickles through the crevices of his chest and abdominal and into his sticky wounds. He is shaking so horribly from exhaustion and probably dehydration too and Keith feels _bad._ He has spent so much time trying to cover his own ass that he hasn't stopped to consider what this guy has been through. Considering the state Keith found him in, Shiro had one hell of a night. Dealing with whoever/whatever screwed him up so bad and having to wake up to a stranger in a strange place with one less arm - that has got to be rough. Keith is scared in his own right, but Shiro must be absolutely terrified. The bullet in his flesh and gun in his face probably do nothing but justify the distrust he woke with.

God _,_ Keith doesn't know if he's an idiot for sympathizing with someone who almost killed him or having escalated the situation to this point with his own rashness.

Keith rubs the dried blood from his neck, closes the front door, and joins Lance.

“Put it away,” he says softly, gesturing at the weapon.

“You want to sit down or something? You're obviously not thinking straight,” Lance says with a raised eyebrow. Keith flinches; the blatant dismissal stings.

Shiro's eyes dart between the pair, analytical.

“I'm _fine_.” There's the fire. Lance scoffs, eyeing his partner’s broken nose. “Look, I don't know anything about him other than his name. We shouldn't assume he's our enemy. Maybe he's just as confused as we are about this whole mess.”

“So you're saying we should just trust him? Him?” Lance points for emphasis. “The one who, as I stated earlier, tried to kill you?”

“I'm saying we should give him a chance,” Keith snaps, unable to keep himself in check on account of easy irritability or maybe the adrenaline rush he's still riding. Regardless, he is not in the mood to butt heads with Lance. Not now.

Lance's face swells with an argument ready to burst. Keith begrudgingly prepares for it, chest puffed up, but his partner must see the determination staining his features - that, or he feels maybe Keith deserves a break. Lance exhales deeply and goes slack.

“Fine,” he says with some reluctance. He waves his hand at Shiro. “But if you start acting all crazy, I have no issues shooting you again, alright?”

It's delayed, but the man nods.

“Good.” With that, the gun is lowered. Lance snatches Keith’s face so fast to crack his nose back into place, the former almost forgets to holler. It actually pisses him off how good Lance has gotten at that. It’s his fault for ever making a lesson of it.

In the quiet that follows, Keith collects supplies, most readily available from last night's endeavors, while Lance searches the premises for a chair. He finds one propped up against a wall and places it a short distance from the futon, from Shiro. The pair eye each other until Keith disrupts the contact with his presence. When he settles on the futon, he makes sure his actions are very slow, very telling.

“May I?” he says, gesturing to Shiro's wounded shoulder.

Shiro hums softly in approval. His eyes are distant. Keith suspects he’s staring at Lance again, but when he follows the man’s line of vision it’s directed at the window. Nerves keep Lance preoccupied. He is slouching and gnawing at his fingernails, but the gun remains a firm extension of his hand. He begins to tap his foot rhythmically against the floor. Keith’s sensibilities are all over the place, making it difficult to pinpoint this new energy coursing through the room. If anything, it’s definitely less homicidal than earlier.  

Shiro continues to be enthralled by the window or whatever he’s looking at until Keith attempts to pluck the bullet. The man bucks against the surgical instrument and Keith’s fingers, obscuring Keith’s view and weakening his grip on the slippery copper. Shiro buries his face in the nape of Keith’s neck, stifling a cry, while Keith goes still. This isn’t unusual, things like this happen all the time, but he finds himself incapable of moving. He isn’t sure why.

His partner makes a noise of disapproval, prompting him to murmur an apology and coax Shiro into readjusting himself.

“Take a deep breath.”

With a steady hand, Keith wiggles the bullet loose. Shiro releases a shaky exhale.

Keith can feel Lance's eyes whirling into his back as he tends to the gaping hole the bullet left behind. The tapping of his foot grows quicker, louder - a lament of his unspoken impatience. If Keith could work any louder, just to be spiteful, he would. He does, however, find himself tearing off longer-than-necessary ribbons of medical tape just for the sound.

“Are you done yet?” The sass on this one. Why the hell did he agree to partner up with him again?

Keith rolls off his gloves, tempted to chuck them at Lance but thinks better of it. He properly disposes of them on his way to the kitchen and retrieves a glass of water. He holds it out to Shiro in, what he hopes is, a gentle offer. Shiro hesitates to accept it, but when he does he practically downs the thing in one hard gulp. Keith refills the glass without asking or being asked to.

This time, Shiro greets the gesture with eye contact and a curt nod. He only chugs the glass about half empty.

“We're going to be straight with you,” Keith says, “as long as you do the same.”

“I never agreed to that,” Lance shouts, earning him a sharp look from Keith. He admits defeat quickly with a roll of his eyes and a quiet _fine._

Shiro takes a thoughtful sip of water. He manages to find an empty spot on the coffee table for the glass.

“You're Galra,” he says plainly. “I can tell by the way you hold yourself.”

Keith stands unwavering before Shiro’s statement.

After his expulsion from the Galaxy Garrison, he felt...lost. The hopelessness gnawing at him for wasting such an opportunity was profound. For someone who spent most of his childhood in and out of foster homes and getting into fights, getting a shot - a real shot - to make something of himself was a big deal. All of those nights turned mornings studying astrophysics, all of those countless hours crashing simulators, all of those injuries his body endured during drill practices - they were for nothing.

As a child, he adapted to the petty cruelties of other children easily. The occasional cuts and bruises he sustained were trivial; his body would heal. Most of his bullies dispersed the moment he made it apparent he had a knife and knew how to use it. The teasing never stopped, though. Even at the Garrison, among the daily chatter, his ears grew sensitive towards gossip and name-calling. They called him dangerous and reckless, words that echoed in the reprimands of his superiors.

_Do you think this kind of behavior will be acceptable in an actual situation? You could get your crew killed._

They said he was in a gang, that he had been since he was twelve or thirteen. How else could someone know how to handle blades so well?

They said there must have been something wrong with him. Whatever it was, it was bad, because not a single family ever wanted his sorry ass.

He ignored it all. What he couldn't shake off, he latched onto and used to fuel his stubbornness. He would do better, be better than all of them. In the end, however, he crashed and burned. His self-induced motivation never stood a chance.

As he walked out of the Garrison for the last time, carrying a shallow cardboard box containing his entire life, he heard the whispers of the people he never entirely trusted but slept, ate and trained alongside.

_What a loser._

_He never had a chance._

_It was bound to happen eventually._

They were right. Maybe that's why he completely lost it.

He had nowhere to go and lacked the support family, money, or friends could offer. He was dead in the water. He was fucking screwed.

Desperate people do desperate things. Allowing himself to become tangled in the activities and culture of a gang might be considered a desperate thing. He did not seek out Galra; rather, he was literally dragged swearing and lurching to its leader, Zarkon. Under the streetlights of the city, he started a fight he couldn't finish. A comment had been made - something entirely too minor to recall - and a threat posed.

Although he managed to find a part-time job at a convenience store, he was essentially homeless. Minimum wage bought him gym memberships for showers, second-hand clothes and packaged meals. When things were at their best, the sympathy of his coworkers manifested as pull-out couches or change for bus fare. At their worst, he stumbled across lonely, middle-aged men who agreed to rent out cheap hotels to spend the night with him. No money was ever exchanged; he just wanted a warm place to sleep. To him, that was actually worse.

His “at worse” phase was at an all-time high when he was confronted by a member of Galra. If he had known the man's affiliation with the high profile gang, renowned for their brutality and drug trafficking, maybe he would have backed off. The Galra asshole was making his intentions of robbing Keith very obvious, though. Keith's clothes were on the verge of tattering and, besides his knife, he only had a few dollars in his pocket. There was nothing of real value to behold, yet he was sick of appearing weak and needy and like hell if he was going to be taken advantage of.

He should have at least tried to run.

Emerging from the shadows, an entourage of gang members surrounded the pair as they began to fight tooth and nail. (Later, he learned the group had planned on jumping him and for no reason other than senseless violence.) He eventually pinned his opponent to the gravel and made quick work of stripping ribbons of flesh with his aching knuckles. Even when the body slackened against the assault, he did not falter. A sharp strike to the base of his skull was the only thing that managed to stop him.

When he came to, he was bound and blindfolded. The blindness invoked a combination of panic and fury that could only be expressed through thrashing and yelling. One voice promised to gag him while another swore a swift detachment of his tongue.

A dozen or so hands led him through an unknown venue. Layers of voices and music filled his ears in an endless stream. A voice commanded him to kneel. When he resisted, he was kicked into submission. The blindfold was removed but his newfound vision did nothing to calm him.

Even sitting, Zarkon towered over him. His shadow stretched throughout the length of the room, consuming everything.

He said Keith had killed - _killed_ , that word echoed in his head - one of his best men. The severity of Keith's situation hit him like a semi. Fear made his stomach do somersaults. He was just a sad sack punk and he wanted to retain that title if the alternative was “chopped up and flushed down a toilet”.

Zarkon did not utter another word, but his eyes spoke volumes. A sizzling branding iron, bearing the Galra insignia, came into Keith's frame of vision. Hands clutched his hair, held him in place and made the iron’s destination terrifyingly obvious.

But it stopped before ever making contact with his flesh. His forehead sweated against the intensity of the iron. A shameful scar hovered only an inch or two away.

When Zarkon perked up with a job offer, he made it sound like the boy bound and knelt on the ground had a choice.

That was eight years ago.

That is why Keith does not flinch, recoil or speak when Shiro makes such a bold statement.

A knowing look possesses Shiro's features as he locks eyes with Keith and fumbles with his belt. Lance springs from the chair and yells something indiscernible; Keith is entirely too engrossed by the man in front of him.

“I'll show you mine if you show me yours.”

With easy confidence, Shiro pulls the belt clinging to his pants loose. He tugs the fabric to about his knees and Keith sees it. In thick, harsh strokes, a tattoo stains the upper portion of Shiro's thigh. It matches the marks that will no doubt scar his chest. Resting beside the omen-bearing tattoo is another: a cluster of kanji Keith can’t begin to decipher. The ink effortlessly spills into one another, making him think they could have been done by the same artist.

Wordlessly, he lifts his shirt. A Galra insignia clings to his skin and the ribs underneath of it. In the same beat, he hooks his foot around the straps of the duffle bag and pulls it from its hiding place underneath the futon.

Shiro blanches when he sees it and lets out a strangled laugh.

“The extent of my relationship with Zarkon is this: I patch up his guys when they end up on my doorstep and send them on their way. You, for some reason,” Keith says as he bends over to unzip the bag, “are worth a lot more than your counterparts. Mind sharing why that is?”

Shiro buries his face in his hand, maybe hoping his voice will be muffled as he says, “It's stolen.”

“What?” Keith and Lance say in unison.

“Altea,” is all he says, but it's enough.

Like always, Lance is the first to completely flip out. Keith likes to believe he is immune to the nerves that send his partner into panics like this, but he finds his resolve cracking.

“Are you telling me there is half a million dollars of Allura’s stolen money in this bag? Because that's what I heard. What - were you the one who stole it too?”

Shiro's drawn-out silence speaks volumes.

Lance closes the distance separating himself and Shiro freakishly quick. The way he presses the barrel against the man's forehead signifies a determination far too passionate to be a threat - it is a promise.

“New plan: we waste this asshole, dump the body, and burn the cash.”

Keith can barely breathe. For a terrifying moment, Lance's plan makes perfect sense. _Get rid of the evidence and pretend this never happened._ Murder is not above either of them. The need to survive obliterates any guilt that may come from inhumane acts like slicing up body parts and melting them in acid. Keith disposed of Shiro's arm without a second thought. Could tossing the rest of him be so easy?

Keith covers Lance's hands with his own and exhausts the remainder of his good intentions into lowering the weapon. The blast stuns the room and its inhabitants into complete stillness.

Keith is caught between comforting Lance or kicking him out. He chooses the latter, not because he wants to, but because the hostility dripping from Lance’s fingers is contagious.

When he says, “Get out,” a thick layer of betrayal glazes over his partner's eyes.

Lance doesn't fight it.

“Fine,” he says, literally butting heads with Keith. He glances at Shiro who appears paralyzed and returns his attention to his partner with a toothy snarl. “I get it.”

He leaves behind a trail of gunpowder and uncertainty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tldr; the kids do a really bad job trying to settle their differences. Also, Shiro is not okay. (I apologize for spelling and grammar errors I am a mess and can't concentrate on anything.)


	3. take the money (and run)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter exceeded my original word count goal by 4,000+ words, making it longer than both previous chapters combined. I apologize for all the mistakes. I probably missed a lot of somethings. (I haven't been feeling too hot lately but writing this gives me something to look forward to.)

Nothing is folded or hung. The contents of the closet spill over Keith's feet the moment they are released from their imprisonment. He wordlessly shuffles through the various articles of clothing - moth-eaten PJs, neglected formal wear, overworn crop tops, and _band shirts._

Most of them are cringe-worthy and reminiscent of his poor taste in music as a teenager, but he settles on a The Cure tee. The artwork is faded and the details are lost entirely, but it seems big enough. He snatches a pair of sweats to go along with it; after that, he fights with the door until it closes.

Shiro has not moved an inch since Lance shoved a loaded gun against his forehead and stormed out. His pants still hang low around his knees. The friction the fabric offers is the only thing holding them in place.

Keith silently presents the change of clothes in all their wrinkled glory.

“Why are you protecting me?” Shiro avoids Keith's gaze. He looks at the cracked image of Robert Smith, instead. “Having it out with your...friend. That must have been hard.”

_Friend._

Keith shrugs. “He'll get over it.”

His tongue betrays him. He sounds so goddamn confident but he's actually full of shit. Lance and he have had their falling outs, sure, but nothing of this magnitude.

When he met Lance, he was a little younger and his hair a little shorter. All of his energy was dedicated to maintaining the business; he barely had time to scratch his own ass. Clients came, got their procedures done, and went. Like clockwork, he memorized new faces and the blood types, allergies, and medications they corresponded with. Subtlety was lost among the grit of surgery. It didn't matter if this person had a flashy tattoo or that one had a horrible deformity, one and the same, they were indistinguishable from each other.

Lance stuck out like a sore thumb. Maybe it was because his procedure - an upper body scarification - required at least a dozen sessions to complete. Keith remembers being annoyed by Lance's particularity. Each symbol he wanted embedded into his skin was minuscule and detailed and demanded a patience Keith didn't want to admit he lacked. But, if nothing else, he was precise and even more stubborn.

He eased a scalpel into the soft flesh of Lance's chest and began carving. They agreed to break every hour of their five hour sessions. Although fleeting, those five minute breaks gave Keith a chance to study his handiwork and Lance a breather. Red-faced, he rubbed tears from his eyes.

Piercings and tattoos are the typical gateway to more extreme forms of body modification. Lance lacked both. Keith couldn't help but notice that as their meetings continued and he became more acquainted with the younger man's body.

When Lance wasn't crying or laughing through the pain, he talked about his family or the shitty day job he worked. Apparently, said family was enormous and bagging groceries was, in fact, as boring and tedious as it sounded. (How was he affording this, again?) Keith refrained from disclosing any details about his own life, but he listened as his client droned on about this or that.

Lance would find reasons to linger long after their scheduled time together was over. He would rephrase questions already asked and answered about infection or the healing process. Sometimes, before sessions, he arrived with a coffee in each hand and a smile on his face. Keith, reluctant as he was (and still is) to accept small tokens of affection, took what was offered.

He knew exactly what was happening. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Follow-ups were short. In the half an hour allowed, Keith constantly reminded Lance to _not_ pick at his budding scabs no matter how tempting the notion became. Despite the self-inflicted irritation, Lance looked good. The designs accentuating the natural curves of his chest and abdominal sweeped onto the entirety of his back. It was all easily concealable. Dressed modesty, he could pass as an honest-to-god citizen and not a freak of the body mod community. Maybe that was his intention all along. The etchings weren't nearly as off-putting as most of the procedures Keith performed. Honestly, the closeted bad boy persona was hot.

A third and final follow-up concluded their relationship. At least, it should have. Cooped up in his little shack, meeting new people all the time but never establishing sincere relations, Keith was undeniably lonely. Years of setting his physical want of another person ablaze left him gasping for an air of intimacy. His lungs drowned in the smoke of it. He could bury himself in the ashes. It was his own damn fault.

No longer tender, Lance had easily hopped off the operating table and pulled his shirt over his head. Promises of outings at local cafes and bars entertained his lips, but Keith wanted something tangible. Here and now, if Lance would allow it, he would indulge on the flights of fancy envisioned but never claimed in his teenagehood.

When he pushed Lance against the operating table, the younger man's body slackened in expectancy. Feeling encouraged, Keith closed the distance between them with a sharp kiss and...they may have fucked. Once.

Twice.

Besides that minor detail, their relationship has been strictly professional with only a few arguments in between. (They are, as Shiro very _decisively_ put it, friends. Primarily partners. Not lovers.) Their disagreements have always sorted themselves out, more or less, but Keith isn't so sure this one will be without its repercussions.

Apparently, Robert Smith does not hold all the answers, because Shiro pulls his eyes from the graphic and digs them into Keith’s.

“Why are you protecting me?” Again.

Keith tugs the shirt over Shiro's head and carefully smooths its wrinkles over his chest. The man only appears somewhat startled by the gesture. By the time he wiggles his arm into the sleeve, he is being handed sweatpants.

“You have no reason to.” He kicks off his pants and hikes up the new pair. Keith attempts to distract himself from the quick, added display of flesh but it's a shoddy try if nothing else.

He snorts. “You say that like I’d take a bullet for you. I just want to know the whole story. A dead man couldn't do that for me.”

“And then what happens?” Shiro thoughtlessly plucks the hem of the tee.

“You're the one who’s half a million dollars richer. You tell me,” Keith says, eyeing the duffel bag and lightly tracing its outline with his toes. Facial reconstruction surgery pops into his head. Shiro could go his own way and Keith, assuming he would be paid handsomely for his services, could stuff his collective earnings into a similar duffel bag and just _leave_. The world is more expansive, more fruitful than the confines of a little shack in a desert and the immoral acts that transpire within it. He could hold a lighter to his fingertips and scorch his origins. He could forget what it means to be Galra.

He could run.

“You seem a lot less concerned about this being Altea money than your buddy,” Shiro says, voice verging on suspicion and reuniting Keith with the concept of reality.

Keith decides Shiro is too attractive to have his features shaved and realigned, anyway. Even with the wound cutting across his nose, stuck with stitches and undoubtedly swollen underneath the pink bandages, his allure is alarmingly apparent. Faint lines mark his forehead, most likely the doing of stress. They do nothing to shame the prominence of his features. Like the slight darkness underneath his eyes, they age him. He must be older than thirty but not by much, Keith decides, now that he's had time to dwell on it.

In any other setting, Shiro would look like the type of guy with an honest job. Maybe a wife, as well. The only things that throw such a reality off are his peculiar hair, dawning scars, and the roughness that seems to highlight every element of his face like grooves of a canvas.

Reality, right.

“Those are Lance's people,” Keith says, “not mine. Galra have been giving them a hard time as it is. He’s worried.”

Shiro's eyes widen in disbelief. A drawn-out whistle escapes his lips and fills the air. It is an indicator that, perhaps, Keith has said too much too soon.

“You're Galra and he's Altea. How did you get yourself caught up in that, Romeo?” he asks with a somehow good-humored laugh.

 _I'm the idiot who kissed him before bothering to ask how a retail job pays for a $9,000 scarification piece_ , is what Keith absolutely does not want to say. Ensuring his silence is the dramatic change in Shiro's overall tone and demeanor. An honest glimmer of personality adorns his gaze. Like mist clearing on a damp morning, an unspoken potential reveals itself. There is a familiarity associated with lending clothes. There is a learned protectiveness that accompanies every weeping wound Keith mends. Something within Shiro glows, and suddenly he is not a husk dangling from Death's grip or one of Zarkon’s scrambled-brained lackeys - he is a mosaic worthy of exploration.

“I'm not one of them,” Keith snaps, interrupting his own thoughts. He crumples his nose like he got a whiff of something bad. “Like I said earlier, I just take care of Zarkon’s guys. It's hardly a full-time job.” He folds his arms over his chest, shielding himself against the spiral of vulnerability shifting the air - a gathering of ill-placed words and mannerisms.

“That tattoo you flashed earlier says otherwise,” Shiro says a little smug. “You ran with his crew for a while. You must have.”

His posture slackens with flickering expectancy. Keith snuffs it out. If this place must be set aflame, Keith will do it and on his own terms.

“Quid pro quo.”

Shiro smiles sheepishly. When he sighs it is a swift declaration of defeat.

“You're really not gonna like what I have to say,” Shiro warns, eyes flashing to meet Keith's. “I mean, _really._ ”

In an effort to display no outward concern, he puts on his best poker face. Mentally, however, he braces himself for The Absolute Worst. The Absolute Worst includes but is not limited to: a brewing gang war, a direct threat to his current lifestyle, and/or an attack on his person or assets (see: Lance, the thousands of dollars worth of equipment downstairs, etc.).

The tension flooding into Shiro's face is practically visible. His mouth twists uncomfortably as guilt breaks his expression into submission. He says, “I can't remember anything.”

Keith sees stars.

“What?”

Almost reluctantly, he continues: “The last thing I can clearly recall is waking up here. Before that, it's just bits and pieces. Actually...more like complete nothingness.”

Foolishly, Keith was under the impression he could take whatever dire situation he was given and salvage it for all its worth. He’s a “doctor”. He is suppose to be good at that.

This hopelessness only survives for a second or two longer, however; it is exiled from his brain so abruptly it gives him whiplash. While flight usually feels like the more appropriate of two extremes, it is within his nature to fight. The fire crackling endlessly inside his belly would attest to that. He has to approach the uncertainty and vagueness of this dilemma head-on, no matter how enticing any alternative becomes.

He must be the epitome of patience and composure. He must.

“What _do_ you remember?”

Shiro runs a shaky hand through his hair, pauses to lightly jerk at the sweat-laced strands - pseudo stability - and exhales hard. He mouths the words before spilling them, rehearsing, as if he’s just been posed the most difficult question in the world.

“Zarkon trusted me,” he begins. “I was offered something like a promotion. Something more dignified than the bodyguard shtick I had going.” He nods at the opened bag, oozing green like an infected cut. “I had to steal from Altea to get it. We’ve been picking off Allura’s people for a while now. Zarkon’s plan was, and probably still is, to wipe Altea out. If I lifted enough dough it wouldn’t go unnoticed and Allura would know exactly who was responsible. We could drag them all out at once and, boom, no more Altea. No more competition.”

 _Gang war_ hits Keith’s eardrums like a gong and echoes the mountains of his mind. No, less of a war and more like a slaughter. According to Lance, Altea’s numbers dwindle in the dozens. Galra, on the other hand, must comprise at least a quarter of the city’s population. They disguise themselves as college students, parents, businessmen, and countless other citizens. The person pouring your coffee and dressing the lid with creamers and the neighbor you wave to every morning from your mailbox - they could bash a stranger’s face in by nightfall in the name of Zarkon. That is the scare factor: they are everymen. They are anyone.

“I couldn’t do it,” Shiro continues. His sigh is palpable. “There was a chance Allura wouldn’t even take the bait, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to be the one to start a war. When I told Zarkon that, _God_ , it was basically treason. Until that moment, I really thought he was giving me a choice on the matter.”

Sympathy glosses Keith’s expression. Shiro seems too contained in the moment to notice the sentiment. A self-pitying chuckle worms its way out of his throat.

“And then they, they got, I don’t know, I mean - _fuck_ ,” he stammers, suddenly frantic. He lifts his knees to his chest experimentally, aching to curl into himself, but recoils when his sutures threaten to snap like over-stressed strings and destroy the need for pressure and wholeness.

Keith feels himself leaning closer to Shiro’s faltering form, but his arms remain tightly woven across his chest.

“My arm.” The memory drains the color from his face. He looks like he might pass out, throw up or both. “There was a cage full of rats.”

Composure waning, he bobs his head and blinks hard. He really might faint.

“They must have not been fed for weeks.”

Keith recalls the condition of Shiro's right arm. All of those little gashes and ribbons of missing flesh were actually the doing of dozens of blunt, eager teeth. Cannibalism, he had guessed. Comparing the brutality of the two seems trivial when one was a passing thought and the other reality.

It's just another nail in the coffin, really. Another testament to Galra’s fucked up nature. Shiro got off easy, though. Although that may sound cruel, Keith can make such an assertion because he has seen and done worse. A chewed-up arm is merciful when compared to the many atrocities Zarkon and his lackeys are capable of.

“You're lucky you didn't die,” he decides.

“Lucky,” Shiro echoes, forcing Keith to reconsider the sensitivity of his words.

“What happened after that?” he presses even though everything about Shiro's expression and posture suggests an unwillingness to continue. Keith considers reminding Shiro of the half-empty glass of water resting on the coffee table but ultimately decides against it. There's no room for water when words must still cling to his throat, thick and heavy. Vomit remains a possibility, as well.

“I remember someone sticking a needle into my good arm,” he says, hushed and entirely too concise. “And then I saw you.”

Like a conspiracy theorist connecting seemingly unrelated events and people with strings of red, Keith begins to see the truth or at least a semblance of it. He refuses to believe there is not more to uncover.

“They drugged you,” Keith supplements.

Shiro nods.

“Quintessence.” He doesn't have to be Sherlock to figure this part out.

Shiro nods.

It's a nasty drug. Galra’s pride and joy, it is sold at astronomical prices in shady venues throughout the city. Thankfully, Keith has only seen it in action on a few occasions. Each time left him feeling deeply unsettled, though. Quintessence completely strips its victims of free-will, rendering them defenseless to any oncoming tasks and assaults. In this docile state, they perform anything/everything requested of them with the enthusiasm of a zombie. People withdraw hundreds or thousands of dollars of their own money and turn it over to their assailants. They ransack their own homes, fling matches at the gasoline saturated structures, and watch the remnants fill up the sky in angry, black clusters. They lose the meaning of _no_ and spread their legs wide open.

The worst part is, the drug eliminates memories before they ever have a chance of forming. You could wake up in your own bed without a scratch and the only telltale sign would be a distant emptiness gnawing at your brain. You could go insane trying to paddle to the lighthouse in your mind, the keeper of recollection, beckoning with its glow, _come closer, remember._ But, even if you arrive onto the shore, there is nothing to collect. The entire journey is counterproductive and leaves you circling something that never existed.

No wonder why Shiro reacted the way he did.

“Why would they leave the cash with you?” Keith asks because, on the surface, doing so seems downright idiotic. Zarkon is anything but. If he was the one to make that decision, he made it with a scheme in mind. Unfortunately, whatever it is, Keith has no chance of comprehending it with the information he's been given.

“I'm not sure,” Shiro says, further stressing the metaphorical wall building itself in front of Keith. “Whatever the reason, they got eyes on this place. I'm not safe here. Neither are you.”

Brick, cement, brick, cement…

“I hate to say this, but you should have let me die. Things would have been easier for both of us.” He says it so matter-of-fact Keith could actually believe it.

In a final plea, his cowardice bides him to crawl out of this hole he stumbled into. _There is still time,_ it cries. He could undo all of his efforts and dig out the pistol hiding among the clutter of his workspace downstairs. There is his knife and, of course, drugs. He could make it painless. His stubbornness, on the other hand, tosses him a shovel. The choice is obvious.

It's funny how he so easily labeled Shiro as a killer. He doesn't know the man's life story, sure, but from where Keith is standing he seems wrongfully caught up in something much bigger than him. Not entirely innocent - no one who intermingles with Galra is - but redeemable. Keith couldn't say the same thing about himself. He is, at worst, a hypocrite and a liar. At best? A drowning man aimlessly grasping for solid ground, sinking others to stay afloat, to save his own skin.

He is not a good person.

“Doesn't matter,” he mutters with a shrug. “I was involved the moment you got dropped off. I think I was expected to save you.”

Shiro's eyes spark with interest. He looks almost hopeful for a second. Keith already knows what he's going to ask and prepares for the oncoming disappointment.

“I didn't see anyone. There was a car, but it was too dark to make out a license plate number, much less a color,” he says dismissively.

Shiro sucks in a breath and nods in silent understanding. He stands up so suddenly it startles Keith and prompts him to take a step back. He is confronted with the massive structure of Shiro's body, which seemed so much smaller when it was hunched over on the futon and even hovering above his own. The few inches Shiro dwarfs him by are hardly intimidating. What's intimidating is the broadness of the man’s shoulders, chest and abdominal. Keith has already seen those muscles protruding under skin like a warning. The newly-acquired shirt does little to hide their prominence. It is entirely too easy to imagine them rippling under exertion, popping heads like balloons and tossing bodies like stones across an expansive lake. Shiro had crushed Keith's nose with such precision it seemed second-nature.

It still hurts - his nose - but the blood has dried since then. It lines his nostrils in viscid clumps. He has been able to ignore the pain, but now a dull throbbing emerges from the center of his face. He squints in retaliation at the headache that is bound to form. Half-lidded, he watches Shiro eye the duffle bag. A glossy glint splits the clouds brewing in his irises, revealing his intentions.

“You're gonna need shoes,” Keith mutters absentmindedly. He nods at Shiro's bare feet. How he ended up shoeless, who knows? Another lost detail. Probably unimportant.

He moves with unmeasured assumption. He looks ready to dart but kindly loiters to ask, “What about you?”

In other words, _how are you getting_ yourself _out of this shit show?_

Despite Keith's dueling emotions, aching nose, lingering late-morning fatigue, and odd infatuation with a stranger, he feels somewhat detached from the reality being spoonfed to him. There is something surreal about it. Digesting its severity is tedious and, more than anything, it dribbles down his chin and stains the skin there. The mess, his position, is obvious to those involved; internally, however, he can barely grasp just how fucked he is.

His current lifestyle is satisfying to a fault. The hours are brutal, his clients range from tame to whacko, and he makes way too much money for someone who consistently refuses/forgets to purchase basic household amenities. He is too frustrated to be satisfied and too satisfied to be frustrated. Distancing himself from Galra had been a relief. This place was supposed to be his solace. And yet.

Maybe he has been waiting for a moment - dare he say, opportunity - like this. Never tending to the tensions flaring from his self-proclaimed dejection from Galra, he left it to burn. In truth, all he managed to accomplish can be dumbed down to leaving behind a sloshing trail of gasoline. Zarkon still believes Keith honors an open alliance with Galra when, in reality, Keith had strived to become background noise. The whole body modification shtick was going well until his location was discovered by some injured Galra men who expected his help.

They bore the same nasty mark as him. How could he have turned them away?

Much like the Garrison, he was clothed, feed and bedded under Galra’s many roofs. He performed odd jobs that seemed irrelevant until it became apparent just how involved any one of Zarkon’s plans were. Somewhere along the way, he was deemed efficient enough to climb ranks.  Surgeon seemed to suit him because he was “smart” and went to “astronaut school”.  Like astrophysics had any businesses bleeding into the complexity of, say, neuropathy.

Maybe he should be grateful Zarkon loosened his grip long enough to allow him a fair shot at another life. Maybe he should be grateful for all the years he spent fostered by liars, cheats and killers who dared to show him tenderness in softer moments. Maybe he should be grateful because they taught him everything he knows.

The unspent money resting by his feet and the man standing in front of him are reminders on his actual, cosmic position. He is merely a speck in a universe he owes nothing and, with proper motivation, he will take everything.

It occurs to him this might be the reason why he let Shiro live.

“I might have an idea or two.” He clears his throat. “Would you rather run off with the cash or take down Galra?”

Shiro laughs at the ludicrous nature of that question, but Keith is not embarrassed or ashamed of it. This unforeseen spunk, undoubtedly a shock to the more or less stranger, arrests his laughter.

“You're serious,” Shiro says a little breathless.

“As serious as I was dragging your ass in here and cutting off the arm they destroyed,” Keith retorts. Shiro's mouth twitches into a harsh line. “We both know how they operate,” he reasons. “We wouldn't be walking in blind.”

“There are only two of us. Three if you include Billy the Kid,” Shiro says, noncommittal. He squares his shoulders and straightens his back. Whether it’s intentional or not, his posture portrays a willingness to conversate when Keith suspects a mad dash for the exit.   

“Lance,” Keith corrects, trying to maintain eye contact, some form of obligation.

“Yeah.” It’s thoughtless.

“I'm not proposing an all-out war against Galra,” he says carefully. His caution is as needless as warning a smoker of the damaging effects of smoking or screaming at an underpaid employee at a chain restaurant, because the next words are resounding. “I'm proposing we cut off their head.”

It takes a moment to register.

“Wait, you mean, Zarkon?” Horror flashes across Shiro’s face. In one fluid motion, he zips up the duffle bag and snatches its straps. “No, no, no, not doing that.”

Eyes trained on the door, he pushes past Keith in a hurried scramble. Keith sloppily throws himself between the exit and Shiro, hands splaying along the man’s chest and surely disturbing the sutures.

“You owe me,” he snaps and Shiro retracts as if burnt.

“Then let me pay you.” It sounds like a plea, more than anything.

“I'm not interested in partaking in Altea’s stolen money and neither should you be.”

Shiro's nose scrunches in irritation. “You seemed perfectly content with letting me leave a minute ago. What changed?”

Nothing. Everything.

“I don't want my life to be controlled by Zarkon anymore. I don't want every decision I make to be because of _him_.” His voice strains on that final word. It could easily be mistaken as weakness or fear except it's neither. “Like you said, we're probably being watched. How far do you think you'll get in a city infested with Galra, honestly?”

“I _think_ I'll take my chances.”

Using the entirety of his hulking form, Shiro pushes on that final syllable. It's enough. Keith stumbles only to regain his footing and return the action, only harder. The butt-end of a stitch pokes his palm through the fabric. Shiro convulses at the assault on his skin, still too raw. He swallows the sting long enough to swing the hefty bag at Keith's head. Quicker, Keith ducks and uses the bag’s momentum to untangle it from Shiro's fingers. It flies and hits the floor with a hard thud.

The noise directs their attention to the tossed item. They seem to be on the same wavelength as they whip their heads to look at the bag and return their vision to each other. They are ridiculously in-sync, to the point it's almost comical, as they search each other's eyes for common ground.

There is none to be found and Keith knows the exact moment to evade Shiro's oncoming fist. Instead of Keith's chest, it plows through the front door in a startling smack of crunching wood. Shiro seems unfazed as he pulls his bruised and splintered hand from the wreckage. Keith uses this moment of recollection to better situate his footing. He narrowly avoids Shiro's next attack, leaving the man stumbling, and rushes into the kitchen. Like a bloodhound, Shiro is on him. He snatches the younger man’s shoulder and twists his body like a soppy sponge. The odd contortion of his body causes him to go rigid and topple under the incredible force of the other man. The popping that erupts from his spine is borderline painful. He manages to headbutt Shiro before the pair morph into tangled limbs and heated breaths on the tile.

Although awkward and misplaced, the pressure easing against him feels good. Common Sense materializes in the forefront of his mind and, with snapping fingers, informs him now is not the time to dwell on subtle forms of intimacy - especially when they're unintentional.

He wiggles one of his arms free but its freedom is short-lived. Before he can do anything, Shiro secures his wrist against the floor with a numbing grip. Having more or less pinned down the younger man, he rights himself and blinks away colorful, pulsating star - courtesy of Keith's headbutt. The dull banging of Keith's leg against his hip sends him back to Earth. It's the most unrestricted part of him - his leg - and he blindly jabs at Shiro's lower-half with the sharp edge of his heel until the man releases a guttural growl.

Like a game of Whac-A-Mole, Shiro attempts to swat Keith's leg with his own. Eventually, their legs get so tangled neither of them can budge, only further restrict the warring movements of their limbs. Panic gathers inside of Keith's chest, so dense it might rupture and take his heart along with it. He is not afraid of Shiro killing him; rather, he is terrified at the prospect of Shiro rendering him unconscious before taking the money and running. Keith will have little options, after that.

In a last-ditch effort, he presses his open mouth to Shiro's throat and runs his tongue along the length of the man's neck. The action is slower than anticipated, methodical and earnest and there is a possibility he is putting way too much heart into this. The skin is oversaturated in salts that explode against his tastebuds. There is an aftertaste of dirt. The gasp that sounds from above goes straight to his groin, confirming, _yes_ , he did overthink this.

As expected, Shiro retracts long enough for Keith to slide out from under him. Shiro moves to his feet but Keith is faster; he dips his hand into the sink and plucks the first thing he touches. He frowns at the dishware - a frying pan - but has no time to dwell on it with Shiro advancing. With all the force he can muster, he slams the flat-end of it against the other's face. There is a familiar crunch and a toppling body.

He opens his eyes, not realizing he had closed them, to see Shiro fighting unconsciousness on the floor. He loosens his grip on the pan and it hits the floor with a resounding clang. The man's face swells around the protrusion of his broken nose. Blood leaks from his nostrils. Keith ignores the man's squirming and groaning and busies himself sorting through the various cabinets lining the kitchen. Pens, screws, gloves, candles, and measuring tape are some of the things he finds but not what he needs. He begins yanking out entire drawers and emptying them onto the floor. Shiro reaches for one of his ankles, garbling curses, but is easily shaken off with a kick.

Finally, in the same drawer he stuffs unused wires and power chords, Keith finds what he was looking for: a pair of handcuffs.

He secures one around Shiro's wrist before hooking his arms under the man's armpits and dragging him. Like most points of interest in Keith's home, the distance from the kitchen to the bathroom is short. He lets go of Shiro for a moment to grope at the doorknob behind him. Once he opens the door, he gets Shiro inside with one final pull. The bathroom is tiny and the one space capable of becoming enclosed - the only true “room” - save for the basement. The sink is marked with faded stains so ingrained in the porcelain not even bleach stands a chance erasing them. Where the painted walls do not flake, stains of actual bleach exist in splatters. The shower curtain has seen better days, too. Happy, cartoon lions decorate the flimsy material in rows. To say the least, it looks out of place in comparison to the overall dank appearance of the room. The only thing maintaining any semblance of balance is the grime clinging the the curtain’s ends.

Keith eyes it while Shiro wiggles in his grasp. Leaning forward, he mutters a “get up” which is surprisingly gentle. It is also surprising when Shiro actually obeys. Although wobbly and depending highly on the sturdiness of the other man, he manages to stand. Keith tosses the unclasped end of the empty handcuff over the shower rod. He watches awareness twitch onto the other man's face, intensifying every time one of the metal notches clicks into place. Shiro catches his gaze.

“You're unbelievable,” he grumbles through knitted teeth. Experimentally, he yanks against the restraint; there isn't much give. His body thrums with newfound energy and he gives it another try. Keith would back off if he wasn't at least half the reason Shiro is standing right now. Maybe that's also a good reason to let go.

“I need you to seriously consider this,” Keith says as if their conversation was not interrupted by a lengthy tussle. “You leave right now? You're dead. I don't care how tough you think you are. You won't stand a chance when an army of Zarkon's guys jump you.”

“You just want to save your own skin,” Shiro barks back. “You're gonna hand me and the money over to Zarkon like a goddamn prize. Hell, that's probably what he's expecting.”

Shiro's face is entirely too close to his own. The heat of his breath encaptures their headspaces and draws Keith closer. The droplets of blood spilling onto his collarbones and shirt go unnoticed.

“Have you been listening at all?” he hisses. “I want Zarkon out of the picture. Dead, preferably.”

“You want me to help you kill Zarkon,” Shiro says, drawing out every syllable. “Do you have any idea how insane you sound?”

Out of spite, Keith reaches for Shiro's nose and expertly snaps it back into place. The man hollers at the sharp, sudden pain invading his face and squeezes his eyes shut. He tugs at the restraint, hand itching to cradle his throbbing nose but unable to.

“Are you-”

A glob of spit smacks the corner of Keith's mouth. He locks eyes with the perpetrator - haughty with satisfaction - as he presses his shoulder to the wetness, wiping it away.

“Warn me next time so I can open my mouth for you.” His own words feel like a slap to the face; immediately, he wants to take them all back. He could blame Lance's misplaced flirtations slipping into his vocabulary, but he suspects it's actually the result of his own blundering sensuality. Shiro doesn't miss a beat.

“Suddenly the neck licking makes so much sense,” he says, sounding amused where Keith expected disgust. It ends up being worse. “You got the hots for me, is that it? I gotta say, I'm not into this whole handcuff thing, baby.”

Like a snake snapping at unsuspecting prey, Keith clutches Shiro through the loose fabric of his pants. Fingers woven in the soft tufts of black hair, directing the man's attention to him as he squeezes arguably the most vulnerable part of him, fills him with a terrifying sense of dominance. He holds the position until soft groans of protest finally break the spell.

“Don't patronize me.” He suckles on the last bit of venom polluting his tongue.

With that, he releases Shiro in his entirety. The man flails at the lost contact, forcing the rod to support most of his weight. It creaks in resistance.

There is a knocking at the door. It seems to distract Shiro from whatever insults or curses were bound to make an appearance. Keith, too, is drawn to the sound.

He told Lance to cancel all of his appointments today. Unless it's Lance himself, or an ill-timed walk-in, no one should be here. He eyes the bound man, an unspoken _stay still and quiet_ , before poking his head out of the bathroom.

“Lance?” he calls.

He is greeted with an uncertain several seconds of silence, followed by more knocking. Through the splintering hole in the door, he can distinguish the shapes and colors of what may be multiple people, not including the one he had been hoping for.

“Who is it?” Shiro whispers from the confines of the bathroom, metal rattling slightly in anticipation. When no response is offered, apprehension hardens his voice. “Uncuff me. Now.”

Keith continues to outright ignore him as he quickly surveys his surrounding, swings the door shut, reclaims his long ago discarded knife and tiptoes to the door. The knocking is repetitive as it is nerve-wrecking. Every rap against the wood feels like a direct assault on his rapid heartbeat. He stuffs the hilt of his weapon into the firm waistline of his pants. The sensation of the blade resting so delicately against his back defines danger and security, interchangeably. Carefully, he tugs his shirt over what may possibly become a vessel of treason.

He only opens the door wide enough to reveal a sliver of sun-stroked face and to gauge the intentions of his guests. There are two: one dons a leather jacket which has endured excessive wear, especially at the elbows, and appears as rigid as the green tattoos standing along either side of his neck; the other is shorter, looser and has a head bald enough to redirect the harsh Nevada sunlight directly into Keith's eyes.

Bald smacks a wad of something - tobacco or gum or _something_ \- against his molars. The noise is obnoxious enough to make Keith visibly flinch. In fact, he over-exaggerates the motion to illustrate just how annoyed he is by the man's chewing. It goes unnoticed.

“Where is he?” Bald blows a bubble. Gum. The sound of it popping is almost silent, but its sudden expansion and explosion reminds Keith of a gunshot.

He needs to be smart.

“In several bags. I couldn't fit all the pieces into one,” he says, nonchalant and shrugging.

The incessant squelching between Bald’s teeth ceases while Leather Jacket goes wide-eyed. Their shock only keeps them in silence for a moment longer before they turn to each other in a comical display of hand movements and mouthed words.

So they do want him alive.

“Doc, this ain't-”

“I'm kidding. He's downstairs,” he says. The relief on their faces is instantaneous. He easily pushes the door open with his fingertips and steps aside to welcome the Galra men inside.

Not even two steps in and Leather Jacket notices the duffle bag. In the wake of his discovery, he signals his partner with a sharp grunt and nod. The bag is just one of the many elements Keith needs to be concerned about. See also: his makeshift operating station and Shiro's discarded clothes. Not to mention Shiro himself, who is bound to a shower rod via handcuffs and solely concealed by a few inches of wood mere feet away.

As long as he remains quiet, Keith reminds himself, everything will be fine.

“Were you the ones who dropped him off last night?”

“No, it was, uh...” Bald begins but stops short, looking to his partner for permission to continue. Leather Jacket shakes his head. “It wasn't us.”

“I'm assuming the contents of the bag aren't payment,” Keith continues. He wants to see just how far he can dunk his feet in before getting nipped.

“We hope you aren't disappointed. Boss said he'll pay you personally for this job. Just gotta swing by sometime,” Bald says with a wave of his hand. Leather Jacket easily swings the bag over his shoulder.

Keith doesn’t realize how territorial he has become with that stupid bag until he sees it in the Galra’s possession. Instead of letting it show, he hums in approval. “This guy must be pretty important.”

“Yeah,” Bald says a little lackluster. “Must be.”

Both of the men eye the basement door with urgency. Keith tries to remain undisturbed by the unspoken expectancy to lead them into the basement and present them with something that does not exist (in that exact spot, anyway). Getting trapped down there with two presumably armed men is the last thing he needs.

He could actually let them take Shiro. It would be easy. The man has thoroughly expressed his disinterest in accompanying Keith on his one way ticket to Certain Failure and Death, though he himself could beg to differ on the results. Shiro represents something very special, though. He is Keith’s betrayal. Tangible and alive, his existence paves the exact route to Zarkon’s slit throat, bullet-riddled head or mangled body. There are a lot of ways to fantasize the demise of a man who determines the fates of those around him like a god.

As Keith moves to the basement door, he quickly realizes he couldn’t get these guys to walk in first even if he tried. Trying would be suspicious and suggest dishonesty so, when he hears the tapping of shoes behind him, he spins to whip his knife wherever it is predetermined to land. Unfortunately, he does not hear the split of flesh or strangled gasp he had hoped for but what he sees is better: his knife, lodged in the barrel of Bald’s gun and restricting a flow of bullets. The man angrily clicks the trigger only to receive zero feedback. Keith doesn’t have time to dwell on the fact these men were ordered to retrieve Shiro and exterminate him if the situation called for it (which it has), what just happened was awesome. He wishes Lance could have been here to see it.

Gloating rights aside, he just lost his only weapon which is very _not_ awesome. Bald attempts to resurrect his weapon before giving up and flinging it across the room. This grace period allows Keith to duck and roll behind the open bar of his kitchen, narrowly avoiding an onslaught of carnage courtesy of Leather Jacket’s freshly-drawn gun. Bullets penetrate and gouge blotches of wood and ceramic. The noise sends a thrill up Keith’s spine. His brain whirls. That could have been him.  

There is a rush of footsteps. In reality, he did not put much distance between the Galra and himself. This becomes painfully apparent when both men appear in his peripheral; even more so when the mere sight of the barrel of Leather Jacket’s gun blinds him like hanged men on gallows.

“Don’t make us kill you. We don’t want to, especially after all you done for our people. We get Shirogane and we’re gone,” says Bald. Agitation from the earlier assault still stings his features, but he seems to be moving past it. It’s actually admirable taking into account Keith’s intention to incapacitate him or at least one of them.

A sense of community tickles his throat. These are the kind of people who treated him like family for so many years. He swallows obligation and guilt in one hard gulp.

“Downstairs.” His voice is hoarse.

The pair lock eyes and seem to determine something in a matter of moments. Leather Jacket lowers the gun. Bald’s features soften. Every second thought Keith maintains threatens to ride his esophagus and burn every fleshy inch of it. Since he has already made his decision, this is a feeling he will have to adapt to. This is a necessary side-effect to the discourse he plans to impose.

“Don’t disrespect us, Doc.” It’s a solemn request from Bald as he turns his back to Keith and begins his descent into the operating room. Leather Jacket is not far behind.

It’s trust. They trust him.

 _Swallow, swallow, swallow._  

He only has a few seconds to act and he needs to make them count. Shiro is exactly where Keith left him on the shower rod. The man tenses at the other’s rash and sudden reappearance in the doorway. Despite the constricted nature of his body, his face tells a different story. He almost looks relieved.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Good question.

Keith retrieves the gun kebab, hops onto the toilet, and motions for Shiro to grab an end, any end. Even with the added height, the other man struggles to get a solid grip on the thing. To the damning tune of enraged stomping, they manage to free both weapons. Shiro gets the presumably useless gun. Keith, his knife.

“I need you to uncuff me now. _Please_.” He can’t hear Shiro.

It happens fast, leaving Keith with the same brief disbelief that comes with missing a green light and getting an earful from idle vehicles. Leather Jacket pounces on Keith but, somehow, Keith sinks from the predatory grasp in time to use the larger man's force and weight against him. He sends him hurdling into Shiro with the mindfulness of a football player, reassigning the doctor to the smaller of the two Galra men. Like mountains of molten lava on boulders, he crashes into Bald. The pair soar into the living space in a mess of combating limbs.

Keith sticks Bald’s arm with the blade and immediately regrets not aiming for something lethal. His opponent gets his good arm around him in a chokehold. In the midst of flailing for breath, he catches a startling glimpse of the scene transpiring in the bathroom: Leather Jacket’s face, beat red, as Shiro crushes his head between a pair of powerful thighs. The arguably largest man of the bunch claws deliberately pointed fingernails down Shiro's legs in desperate bursts. Shiro's sweats do little to protect his skin and he grinds his teeth through every series of scratches.

The view motivates Keith to elbow his attacker, but his struggles only seems to encourage Bald’s strive for a stronger death grip. He sees spots. Uselessly, coughs reverberate along the tender slope of his throat in an attempt for air.

He weakly reaches for the knife lodged in Bald’s arm. It's hopeless.

A sharp scream of metal shatters brimming unconsciousness into tiny shards. Through specks of black and white, Keith witnesses Shiro emerge from the bathroom looking thoroughly pissed off. The sight must be terrifying enough to persuade surrender from the remaining Galra, or at least a revisitation of who holds the upper hand, because he is able to suck in a cool rush of oxygen.

With the dislocated shower rod in hand, Shiro swats at Bald’s head with unperturbed certainty. Keith is surprised when it doesn't explode into a red paste on impact or fly off his shoulders like a golf ball parting ways with its tee. Instead, a mutilated end of the rod settles between his temple and prompts a sickening crunch from the man's skull. His fall is ominously silent. The release is immediate and the breath much needed, but the sight of Bald’s crimson leaking head, deadpan eyes, and mushy wad of gum rimming his lips causes Keith to lose any semblance of control. He can't swallow anymore.

He vomits.

He catches a glimpse of the duffel bag by a set of upturned shoes. They belong to Leather Jacket, who is somewhat concealed by the colorful shower curtain and sprawled on the bathroom tile, unmoving. Blood trickles from an obvious gunshot wound to the head. He has to wonder how he didn't hear it.

Beside him, Shiro collapses into a pile of sweaty limbs and heavy breathes. He does not speak as Keith empties the remaining contents of his stomach. It's mostly bile. He can't recall the last time he had a decent meal.

His squelching and burping is followed by silence. It's warranted. What is the best thing to say in a situation like this?

“I’ll do it,” Shiro says with a puff of his chest.With eyes as strong and as dark as day old coffee, he lifts his gaze to the ceiling and settles on his back. Stomach slowly settling, Keith finds himself parroting the motion.

His mind is racing. A heap of his own puke spoils the wooden floor only inches away from his head; some of it sticks to his hair in gross clumps, undoubtedly. Beside his bodily filth is a dead man. In the bathroom, another dead man and a bag of money. The rod to his shower curtain is not where most should be found. Most should also not be bloody. At the center of it all is Shiro. He rubs his chin in what may be quiet contemplation of what he's agreed upon. His wrist swells around the handcuff that dangles from it.

He turns his head to look at Keith. They're so close.

“You seemed perfectly content leaving a minute ago,” Keith says a little sarcastic. “What changed?”

That gets a smile out of Shiro. He says, “Beating up bad guys might have given me a hard-on.”

Keith can’t manage filters right now; he laughs. There has to be special place in Hell reserved for people who laugh in front of dead bodies.

“You were right about me not standing a chance out there,” Shiro admits, even though he was the one who single-handedly overpowered two men and saved Keith’s sorry ass in the process. “We may be royally fucked, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't fuck Zarkon as long and as hard as possible.”

“Plus,” he adds, “I like you.”

Keith closes his eyes and hums, still a little giddy. “Even though I broke your nose and handcuffed you?”

“I broke your nose first,” Shiro offers quickly. Then, more thoughtfully, “And you saved my life.”

Keith opens his eyes at that. Shiro's stare on him is intense. He could dissect the emotion behind his graying irises, the slight parting of his lips or furrow of his brow, but he won't. He dismisses it all as gratitude - a thank you - where none was previously given.

“You saved mine,” he says, words slowed by the weight of reality.

“We're even,” Shiro decides.

They are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quintessence is based off the drug Devil's Breath. It's pretty spooky.


End file.
